I Remember You
by fiftyshadesofdevingray
Summary: He can't remember, he has to remember, his life depends on it. But is his life really worth living without her?


** "I Remember You"**

**Summary: He can't remember, he has to remember, his life depends on it. But is his life really worth living without her?**

**A/N: This is just a little fic I had floating around my head after listening to a really interesting piece about repressed memories on NPR. It was really very interesting and the story was sad and beautiful kind of like Violate. So here we go I don't know how long this will be or how often I will update so bear with me. The italics are memories and aren't necessarily chronological. **

** Part 1**

**I**

The walls of the institution aren't new to him, but they aren't the same, either. He is eighteen now, he has aged out of the colorful walls covered in crayon drawings of the children's ward to the dull white walls that confined the adults. Not that it mattered; both had the same motive; to get him to his next bout of sanity. A difficult task because, because he was anything but sane.

He had been in and out of various mental wards practically his whole life. At ten it was because he scratched his face in anger until it bled. When asked why, he said simply, "To ruin it." To get back at his mother, she wanted a perfect child and that was just something he wasn't.

At eleven it was discovered he was self-harming. He claimed it was because he couldn't feel, he wanted to feel. He had shut off his emotions after his father left, when he discovered his Mom was a cocksucker and was fucking everything that moved. When the whole world came crashing down on him, including one of his mother's latest cocks. Not that she believed him. This had been an ongoing matter, so maybe he wasn't looking to feel but for a change.

Now at eighteen he had been on his longest stint ever, since the end of summer of his seventeenth year. But this stint had also been different; sure there had been blood on his hands, just not his own. Sure, he had pictured other's blood and killing them in the most malicious ways possible, but this wasn't on him. He was accused of killing the neighbor girl and his family; _if they only knew._

The problem was nobody knew exactly what had happened because he wasn't speaking, no words were being uttered, no grunts, nothing. All he seemed to do was stand in the social room in front of an easel and paint pictures of a delicate (often naked) looking teenage girl with deep mesmerizing eyes and rose bud tits; a girl that similar to the victim or seascapes. Sometimes both. Authorities thought it was his way of taunting them, but it wasn't anything like that; it was his way of being keeping his last memories of her straight.

**II**

_The beach is empty except for the two young lovers. The mid-July night is perfect for romance; a beautiful night sky covers them, a cool breeze breaks through the humid summer air. He sits on a blanket watching his angel dance barefoot among the surf and driftwood; the bonfire he built to ke"ep the light illuminating against her alabaster skin. He could watch her all day, but that would mean distance and not a comfortable one because even the slightest caused an agonizing void in his heart. She kept the horrible thoughts, the blood and the carnage at bay. She was his one and only light. _

"_Violet!" he calls, longingly. _

_Violet halts her spinning and turns to him. "Tate!" she calls back, mockingly; probably at his apparent neediness. She runs and jumps into his lap; he can feel the sea soaked fabric of her peasant skirt and a raging hard on growing. She can feel that too, apparently; she presses her lips against his. "Somebody is happy to see me," Violet breathes against them._

"_I am always happy to see you," he mumbles, stroking her baby soft cheek._

_Violet rakes her fingers through his curls. "Good," she sighs, happily._

_Tate maneuvers her back against the blanket, resting himself in the apex of her thighs. His lips move against hers hungrily; one hand gripping her hip while the other cups her face. He could feel her energy coursing through his veins, but more importantly he could feel, there was the change he was looking for inside himself._

_Tate feels her tiny hands travel down his stomach to the buckle of his belt; he shudders under her touch. "I want to," she whines, breathlessly._

"_No," he chides, grabbing Violet's wrist, gently. Violet's head falls back against the blanket, with a look on her face that crosses between embarrassment and another emotion he can't identify; emotions are new to him._

"_I thought…" she trails off, patting her hand against his growing arousal._

_Tate grasps her hand and pulls his head back looking deep in her eyes. "Violet," he sighs. "I swear I want to be with you so badly…just not here."_

_Violet knits her eyebrows. "Why-"_

"_Sand," he cuts her off, quickly. "I am sure there are certain places you don't want it."_

_She stares up at him, her expression serious until her perfect rose petal lips curl into a smile and she busts out laughing; the most beautiful melodious noise, way better than Nirvana LIVE. Tate brings her lip back to his once again. "My place," she breathes, between kisses._

"_Your Dad?" he groans, as her lips find his neck. Her father, his therapist was one person who truly terrified him, he couldn't take down, and who could separate him from the love of his life. _

"_They're out of town until tomorrow," she pants._

_They were safe…or so they thought._

_**III**_

_The next thing he remembers is a pale green room, ugly and reminiscent of mint chocolate chip ice cream. His head is throbbing, and when he tries to lift his arm to brush a blonde curl out of his eyes he finds he can't. He knows what this is, his eyes wander down to see crisp white gauze wrapped firmly around his forearms, his arms restrained against the rails of a hospital bed. He takes deep breath, oxygen being pushed into his body through his nose, his veins feel cold and his body numb; probably from the IV stuck in his arm._

_The last thing he remembers is Violet's bedroom; her body twisted and whimpering under his. Her naked skin against his, hot and sticky but still oddly sensual; her heart racing against his. He remembers crying out together, and holding her in the afterglow. But now he is here, in the hospital, but where was Violet?_

"_Violet," he moans, trying to break his arms free; he thrashes. "Violet, where are you?"  
_

_When she doesn't appear, he thrashes around more yelling and shouting, he needs to see her, he needs to make sure she is alright. But he can't break free, though so he starts to scream and move around; his wrists are burning. The next thing he knows is there are doctors restraining him, their faces are a blur. He feels a needle pierce his arm._

"Mr. Langdon," they order. "You have to calm down, Ms. Harmon is dead, you killed her."

_The next thing he knows everything is black, his world is shattered._

**IV**

Tate is back in his room now, his hair still damp from the supervised shower he had to take to get the leftover paints off of him. He skipped eating again, it's been the fifth day in the row and there are talks of transferring him to a hospital to give him an IV, which are followed by talks of whether or not it was just a ploy to escape.

It was a ploy, they were right but not to escape this facility just to escape his life without her. The world was dark again, his only glimmer of light gone. He was in a windowless cell, metaphorically speaking; although the window in his room only faced a brick wall; not that he was using it.

"You have to eat, Tate," a voice whispers in his ear, it's her voice.

His eyes snap open, and there Violet is, standing over him in a faded purple sundress looking angelic. Tate's eyes widen. _"This shit can't be real." _He thinks.

"I am here, Tate," she breathes.

**A/N: Not that interesting but hopefully the next chapter is better.**


End file.
